


The Doctor Is In

by Kalenmarc



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Purposefully vague Herald, Varric-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalenmarc/pseuds/Kalenmarc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Conclave, Varric becomes the Unofficial Official Therapist of the Inquisition</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor Is In

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome Dragon Age fans, please enjoy the first piece to come out of this account in over a year, "The Doctor Is In". Beta'd by the wonderful iwillallowit. Thank you Angie for making many wonderful suggestions, and replacing my addiction to commas with yours to hyphens.

The first time it happens is just after the fledgeling Inquisition returns from Val Royeaux. Varric is doing the thing he loves most- sipping Fereldan ale and trawling the pub for gossip he could keep for his own or pass on to Sister Nightingale- when a recruit, no more than 20 with copper hair and eyes of polished brass, comes up and stutteringly asks if “they might ask the good Master Tethras a few questions”. Varric is fearing for an assassination at best, but hails Flissa for another cup anyway; anything to brighten the mood after the disastrous trip. The recruit gratefully sits and, after a moment, begins talking. When the first thing out of their mouth is, “Since Master Tethras has gone through so much hardship between Kirkwall and Haven, I figured you would be the best man to ask”, Varric tunes out.

He knows the game well - head tilted just so, offering a placating nod and an “uh-huh” every few pauses - so he decides to size up this would-be assassin. They are very young- too young to be foolish enough to try something but not old enough to know the difference. He is busy trying to subtly locate Bianca under the table when he hears “And that’s when the nightmares started” and his head perks up, back straightens, and is at full attention. He asks them to repeat that last part, and they say, “I was in Haven when the Temple blew, and I knew I would never see my brother again.” Varric knows that pain well. He sighs and asks Flissa to bring over a nice Antivan red. He has a feeling it will be a long night.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

While it was only hours after noon when Varric first sat in the tavern, the sky was reaching its new shade of evening hue - orange and red, with that sickly green undertone from the Maker-damned Breach. The recruit had recounted the story of their life to Varric; the few acres their family tended, only a day’s trip from Denerim, in meager conditions. “At least we were together”, the recruit says, “At least we were a family”. When their parents died from some illness, or was it a burglar’s attack, they were left the oldest with two babes, twins, in their care. At this point, Varric thought, they were sounding suspiciously like Hawke. Eventually they could no longer support the family and gave the little ones up to the Chantry. The brother apparently volunteered to join the Templars, and the sister was thrown to Kinloch Hold, when there were still Circles and not mages fighting for their freedom. To hear the recruit tell it, the sister died in the initial revolt trying to protect the children from some power-hungry, lyrium-starved templar.

The brother was the only one left, and now he was gone. He tells them: “It doesn’t hurt less seeing their faces every night, but solving the mess that killed them will sure as hell make it easier to face them later.” Varric doesn’t know if the recruit is Andrastian, but he tells them that their siblings will know they didn’t give up. That everyone in the Inquisition is fighting for a brighter, and less green, tomorrow. The recruit, now crying after Varric’s words, thanks him profusely and showers him with “Maker bless you, Varric”, because when someone is crying their eyes out in front of you, you can’t help but wind up on a first name basis. And when they leave the tavern and turn up towards the Chantry, the last of the sunlight glinting on their hair, Varric realizes that it didn’t even occur to ask the recruit their name. He thinks he helped.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next time it happens is after the Herald, more stable in their position and power, personally rescues the soldiers from the Fallow Mire. Varric is happy that he did not accompany the party, as his time in Kirkwall made him leery of zombies, blood magic or no. Besides, deceptively deep swamp water and non-buoyant dwarves are not a good mix. The soldiers host a meager, if enthusiastic, return party for the found soldiers. Many of the former captives seem excited to be back among their fellows - all except for one. They are hunched over, eyes darting, trying to appear small but standing out anyway. Varric, able to spot distress from a mile away but usually only as a means to a coin-purse, approaches the soldier with a mug in one hand and a trencher filled with druffalo in the other. He advances slowly, making a show of his open body language and charming smile, and offers them a penny for their thoughts. And the trencher. They look skittish, as if Varric could be talking to anyone around them but no, Varric _is_ talking to them and they nod and follow. Varric leads them over to his makeshift quarters - more stump and campfire than office - and offers them a drink. Ale or tea, he asks, and when they don’t respond, he pours tea.

After a couple of fortifying sips and a bite or two, the soldier appears to have relaxed. Varric takes this opportunity to ask what is on their mind. They freeze up mid-bite, startled at Varric’s question as if they had forgotten he ever existed (something he was used to, growing up in Bartrand’s shadow). Finally, they seem to relax and begin to speak. They weave a tale of their capture, much darker than the official Inquisition statement. _Isn’t that the way it always is_ , Varric thinks to himself as they continue their account, with enough bloodshed and violence to make a Qunari blush. _These poor people_ , Varric thinks. When the Herald finally rescued them, Mark shining and armor covered in blood, they were only at a third of their original force. The others were lost due to battle or injuries, but in the later days it was infection and starvation.

As Varric listens, every so often they would hang their heads, eyes downcast and downtrodden, and murmur, “It should have been me. I should have died, not them”, and it is all Varric can do not to reach over and bring them into an embrace. He settles for a gentle pat on the shoulder- for the reassurance that their pain is real - that someone is there for them. Varric thinks they are crying but can’t tell. He lets them finish their dinner and tea in silence, and when they leave his fire, they are standing a bit taller, head held a bit higher. They say thank you and walk off. He thinks he helped.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

His most surprising visitor is the Herald. It is just after the Inquisition returns from Redcliffe, with the rebel mages as their equals and high hopes for closing the Breach. No one is quite sure what happened at Redcliffe Castle, only that one moment the Herald and Dorian were there, confronting Magister Alexius with too-easy smiles, the next they were gone, and just as sudden, they were back, looking gaunt and exhausted as only tremendous hardship could cause. The dastardly duo of Herald and Vint were joined at the hip on the ride back to Haven but stonewalled everyone when they asked what happened, brushing them off with promises of “At Haven, at Haven.” To his knowledge, only the inner circle of Seeker Pentaghast, Sister Nightingale, Ambassador Montilyet, and _Commander_ Rutherford (which is an undeserved title and everyone in the Inquisition knows it, Leliana and Varric most of all) truly know the events at Redcliffe, and even then, only what the Herald and Dorian can agree upon. The only things Varric knows are that they went into some apocalyptic future where Empress Celene was assassinated, the Grey Wardens raised a demon army, and someone called the Elder One - probably an Orlesian with that title - was at the top of it all.

It’s the night they return that Varric sees the Herald and Dorian on his stump with the biggest bottle of alcohol ( _something Nevarran_ , Varric thinks) sitting in the fire between them. Varric tries to remember to ask about the name later, for Isabella. The Herald pours him a drink, which is hot, sweet, and spicy, meets Dorian’s eyes, and begins talking. Varric almost can’t believe the things they say, until he remembers that he is a storyteller and should be writing this down. He doesn’t though, when Dorian shoots him a glare that could raise the dead. The Herald says the worst thing about the future was Varric’s eyes. Clouded over with red lyrium, they say; almost completely devoid of hope, Dorian says, and Varric sinks. His optimism gone and replaced with the stuff that drove Kirkwall mad; He can’t think of anything more revolting. He takes a drink. He doesn’t know if he helps.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Varric keeps up this “helping thing” for a few weeks until the closing of the Breach and appearance of Samson and Corypheus disrupt the Inquisition. The Herald, of course, tries to martyr themself to save the Inquisition - so much like Hawke or Isabella or Anders, he almost can’t believe it. He asks that during their trek to Skyhold no one ask for him, because before he can sort out their shit he has to sort out his. Eventually however, the Inquisition, beaten-down, ragged, and weary, reach Skyhold, and are,to a degree, revitalized. The repair work begins in earnest and the first few weeks are hectic and so very busy. Eventually he begins to advertise his services once more, saying he will be “just inside the Keep, to the right, sitting in the good chair by the fire.” Many come by, and sit, and talk, and many feel better. Varric however can not shake the feeling that it is his fault, Hawke’s fault, Anders’ fault, for all of this.

As his mind reaches a crescendo, Cole appears - perfect timing as always - just before the tipping point. “You help people,” Cole says, “like me but different. I act but you listen, and everyone feels better.” Varric thanks him, and has seen enough of the spirit boy’s interactions to know where this is going. “It is not your fault, Varric. Anders did what he did because Justice is hard and cruel and can so easily become Vengeance. The Elder One is older than you or I, older than this place, but he is a sheep in wolves’ clothing. The hawk is always flying, always fleeing, but never forgets it’s nest. You just need to whistle.” And the boy is gone, and Varric finds a strong urge to write a letter. He thinks it will help. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Hopefully I will have a few more words up my sleeves before DA4 comes out. My hope is that I can continue to write fic for the Dragon Age series, but am not opposed to branching out. If you have any suggestions you would like to bring to my attention, please feel free to leave a comment. I hope to see you all again soon.


End file.
